Ring A Ring O' Roses
by MelusinaHP
Summary: Some demons are harder to banish than others.


"Don't we all look nice," said Hermione glancing approvingly at her friends in their dress robes as they progressed down the co

"Don't we all look nice," said Hermione glancing approvingly at her friends in their dress robes as they progressed down the corridor towards the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic where the celebrations were taking place.

"Well, I'd still rather be wearing my blue robes," responded Ron, tugging at his sleeves in irritation. "These ones itch like buggery."

Hermione swatted his shoulder. "Hush! And your blue robes weren't nice enough."

"There's nothing wrong with my blue robes!"

A loud sigh. "They have "Go Cannons!" embroidered across the back in glowing, three inch high letters. They aren't appropriate for a Ministry gathering."

Ron muttered darkly to himself, hands shoved in his pockets, but slyly shot Harry a wink and a grin.

Harry grinned back. They may have looked "nice," but he never felt comfortable at these sorts of events. It had been five years since the end of the second war, and, of course, Harry's presence was required at the commemoration. He understood that. Running over the words to his short speech in his head, he tightened his grip on Ginny's hand. She squeezed back and whispered in his ear, "You're going to be fine. You're always fine."

"I know," Harry sighed. "Just want it to be over with."

"It will be. Soon."

He slipped his arm around her waist and tugged her closer.

Ron elbowed Harry in the side and gestured to their right with his head. Harry looked and saw Draco Malfoy walking quickly towards the Atrium on his own and staring intently into a hand mirror, fiddling with his hair a bit. It had been years since Harry had seen Malfoy. The last time had been in Diagon Alley shortly after the war. Then Malfoy had still looked unhealthily pale and thin; now, he'd lost the pallor and had filled out a bit. He was wearing plush, dark red, expensive looking robes. He looked as if he'd been flourishing. Harry felt a prickle of resentment and reminded himself of what Kingsley always said about learning from the past whilst moving beyond it at the same time. What had Malfoy lost in the war other than a crazy, murderous aunt and a barely verbal goon of a "friend"? A brief flash of a terrified, white-faced Malfoy passed through Harry's mind, but he pushed it aside and refocused on his father. Whatever Lucius Malfoy had suffered during the war had been more than deserved; he'd worked hard to earn his place at Voldemort's side and if it hadn't turned out as brilliantly as he'd expected, well, Harry had very little pity for him. Now, because of "moving ahead," Harry and the others who had fought on the right side all along were going to be forced to listen to Lucius Malfoy prattle on about iwizarding togetherness/i or whatever slippery garbage he chose to speak about in his address that evening.

Lucius Malfoy was a criminal. He deserved life in prison, not to be venerated as spokesperson for remorseful and reformed Death Eaters.

Ron snickered, watching Malfoy preen, and, more than loud enough to be overheard, said, "Feeling pretty, Malfoy?"

Malfoy jolted as if he was being pulled out of a trance. He turned to Ron and sneered, but said nothing, sliding the mirror into a pocket. As he entered the Atrium, his mother joined him. Narcissa Malfoy strode gracefully up to her son and laid a protective hand on his shoulder, gazing steadily at Harry and his friends, defiant and composed.

Harry met Ron's eyes, and they passed a look of amusement between each other. "Guess not much has changed for Malfoy in the last five years." Ron continued, quietly this time, "Still a mummy's boy, by the looks of things."

"You're one to talk," said Ginny, leaning her head against Harry's shoulder and teasing Ron with her eyes. "Mum told me you still bring your laundry by for her to wash each week."

Colouring, Ron hissed at her. "Shut up! I'm busy! I work twelve hours days, and it's a bit harder than just zooming around on a broom in--"

Hermione cut him off by kissing him on the cheek. "She was just teasing you, Ron."

After forty-five minutes of shaking hands and chatting, Harry's cheeks ached from his forced smile and his brain hurt from having the same conversation over and over again. Finally, it was time for the speeches. Harry wasn't due on for another hour, so he and Ginny grabbed glasses of wine. Ron and Hermione were trying to get pregnant, although Harry didn't like to think about that any more than necessary, which meant that Hermione couldn't drink and Ron was forbidden to drink in order to keep her company. Then a voice with a familiar, lazy twang to it rang out from the podium. Harry's hands clenched into fists; he ground his teeth together. Ginny patted him on the back and whispered, "Shhh. Don't let it get to you. He's not worth it," in his ear.

"…and ultimately, the passage of time shows us that the things that separate us are less substantial than the things that bring us together. We are all wizards, after all. If I learned anything during the war, it was that…"

Harry's face prickled with fury. "I still can't believe he managed to pull this off. Bold as brass, talking about the war as if he wasn't at Voldmort's side until the very end. Why did Kingsley let him speak? It's a disgrace to those who gave their lives."

Hermione cleared her throat, cocked her head to the side, and gave Harry a sympathetic look. "Really, it's kind of appropriate, isn't it? Lucius Malfoy speaks, you speak… It shows how we've all moved on from the war, how the things Voldemort put us through aren't holding us back from healing and growing as a society."

Harry gave Hermione a glance that was a bit harder than he'd intended. "But why does it have to be Lucius Malfoy? He should be in prison with the others."

"Well, he contributed an incredible amount to the post war effort," said Hermione, her eyebrows creased as if she didn't really buy into her own words. "And he donated over fifty cases of wine."

"Brilliant. We can all drink to his health. And to buying your way out of Azkaban."

A tight, angry voice came from the side. "Because it's not enough that we're spit on in the street and have given half our fortune to try and make amends. Clearly they should have taken our freedom as well."

Harry's head snapped to look in the direction of the voice. There was Draco Malfoy, leaning stiffly against the sideboard, holding an untouched glass of wine in his hand. His fingers were white with tension as they clutched the glass, and there were pink spots of colour on his cheeks.

"Do you know everything that your father got up to once Voldemort came back?" Harry said, struggling to maintain self-control. "Really, Malfoy, I can only assume not, because if you'd seen what I've seen, I don't believe you'd have the nerve to--"

"We were Death Eaters, so we must be ievil/i now and forever. It's just that simple, is it?"

Harry stared at Malfoy, his eyebrows raised, his mouth hanging open. "Well, yeah. Yeah, it is that simple." He didn't care if it was true, didn't care if he really meant it; the old, familiar, burning desire to iget/i Malfoy had taken hold of him.

"You have no idea!" Malfoy's voice was high and tight. His wine glass began tipping to the side. "We were prisoners in our own home. My father was a iwreck/i after Azkaban. The Dark Lord took his wand." Wine sloshed over the edge of Malfoy's glass, and he angrily slammed it down onto the sideboard, splattering wine everywhere.

Making a point, Harry careful set his own glass down. "Lucius Malfoy was no victim. He made the choice to follow Voldemort; he deserved everything he got."

"You never know when to stop, Potter. You assume everyone wants to hear everything you've got to say. Well they don't. Some of us are sick to death of the sound of your voice."

Harry leaned forward, his free hand balled into a fist. He felt Ginny grab his arm. "Piss off, Malfoy! This is supposed to be a celebration!"

Harry watched, outraged as Malfoy pulled his wand and held it towards his face. He immediately reached for his own wand, and felt Ginny's grip on him tighten painfully. "It's all right, Ginny," he said without looking at her.

Hermione shrieked. Malfoy's wand arm had dropped; he stared open-mouthed at the podium, his face suddenly colourless.

Ginny's fingers loosened and released Harry. As he turned to look at her, she was falling to the floor, her wine flowing from her glass through the air in an arc. She landed, head cracking horribly against the marble, and Harry fell to his knees, feeling as if the air around them had gone dark and fuzzy. "Ginny!" Her face was white, her eyes bright but sightless, her lips opening and closing like a fish. "Ginny!" Harry grabbed her face and turned it towards him. She made a small sound – a shrill exhalation – and then her eyes went dull and blank. "iGINNY!/i" Harry yelled.

It was a sensation very close to Apparition – he was being squeezed, crushed, all the air forced out of his lungs. Black spots danced in front of his eyes.

Then everything went black.

Harry leapt up in the darkness, wand drawn, his mind reeling. There was a sudden, blinding flash of bright orange light and then a noise unlike any he'd heard before – it sounded as if countless people were screaming, their voices winding together, so high-pitched it made Harry fall to his knees, fists pressed tight against his ears.

A sharp pain bloomed in his shoulder and Harry was jerked free of his thrall. The light was back, and Ron was shouting at him, gripping him hard enough to wrench his shoulder out of place. Harry looked around the room and realised that similar scenes were playing out everywhere. Bodies lay splayed on the floor; people were crouched over them, holding them. Hermione was sobbing, hands pressed to her face. Now Ron was yelling at Ginny, shaking her by her shoulders, making her head and neck flop like a rag doll. Trembling, Harry forced himself to his feet. Ron was seeing to Ginny, and he had to do something. He had to stop this. He stared around helplessly and began to run from group to group. He saw one lifeless body after another, blood red wine trickling from their lips – three, five, nine, fifteen, more than he could count. It was a nightmare.

"They're dead!" he heard someone shriek. "They're all dead!"

Harry shuddered, feeling another wave of faintness grip his mind. He shook himself out of it. No. No no no. Not Ginny. Not now. Not after everything they'd lived through, everything they were looking forward to.

He heard a high, wailing sound and his head turned to find the source, thinking it could be a survivor. No. On the podium, Narcissa Malfoy was cradling the collapsed form of Lucius and weeping. Draco stood at her side, trembling, his face slack and white. For a moment his eyes met Harry's. There was no hostility in his gaze, only horror and bewilderment.

Harry felt himself beginning to shake. He turned and ran back towards Ginny, feeling his eyes start to burn. There must still be time to save her. He was living his happily ever after; the woman at the center of it couldn't possibly be dead.

center /center

Three months after Lucius Malfoy's death, Goblins arrived to take possession of Malfoy Manor. The intricate web of business deals, charitable donations and secret arrangements Draco's father had been constructing to ensure they didn't live the rest of their lives as outcasts had broken apart like so much gossamer. They weren't penniless, far from it, but the Manor had been lost. He and his mother had been forced to move into their London flat. Draco's mind ran in nonsensical circles—if his father had known they'd lost the Manor, it would have killed him, but it was his death that had caused the mess in the first place.

His father had been trying to drag them out of the wreckage he'd made of their lives, and Draco had no doubt he would have succeeded, had he lived. His father had had an almost supernatural ability to rise from the ashes. He'd already made a good deal of headway. Staying out of Azkaban had been intricately tricky, and for a while it had looked as if he'd have to serve at least a nominal sentence. The new Ministry was un-bribeable, incorruptible. They weren't stupid, however. Eventually his father convinced them that a dramatic gesture of forgiveness would have significant healing power on the wizarding world. Combined with his donations, which had almost single-handedly funded the re-building of Hogwarts, his freedom had been secured.

Draco had watched his father the evening the Owl arrived telling them that Lucius's sentence had been commuted. Over time he'd gained back some of the weight he'd lost, and his skin looked more like skin and less like parchment. The year he'd spent in Azkaban, however, had left permanent lines on his face and his hair had remained thin and streaked with grey. He'd looked old as he sat in his armchair, the firelight emphasising every crease. Lucius had always seemed indestructible to Draco. Nothing was indestructible, though. Nothing was so strong that it couldn't be torn down--a person, a reputation, a way of life--nothing was invulnerable in the end.

Now, he and his mother were forced to stand outside the locked gates of Malfoy Manor, the chilly autumn wind weaving its way to their skin through their collars and sleeves, as they waited for the Aurors to arrive and allow them entry. Draco wondered what it would feel like to see the rooms in which he'd spent his childhood again, rooms, each and every one, which held countless memories of his father. He remained stoic for his mother's sake, but his stomach roiled with acid and his muscles ached with nerves.

His mother's voluminous cloak shivered and fluttered, but otherwise they were still; they didn't speak. There had been little speech between them during the six months since Draco's father had died. What was there to say? iI didn't think things could get any worse for our family, but I was wrong? Every morning after I wake up it takes me several long moments before I remember that he's gone, and then I just wish I could slide back down into unconsciousness and stay there forever? /iDraco felt his mother's hand brushing against his and allowed her to take hold of it. iThank Merlin we still have each other, even if it is the two of us against the world./i

There was a loud icrack/i and then Draco's stomach clenched tight enough to make his shoulders momentarily hunch. Not Potter. It couldn't be Potter. How could the Ministry be so foolish? Draco straightened his back and scowled, allowing himself the luxury of a good long glare. Potter stared right back at him, his arms crossed defensively across his chest. Potter wasn't looking well. He was thinner than usual and his eyes glimmered with a weary anger that reminded Draco of how Potter had looked during their latter school years-- as if he'd lash out and attack at the slightest provocation. Oh, this was going to be idelightful/i.

It occurred to Draco that the Weasley girl had died in the poisoning, too. Why had Potter been allowed to handle this case? It was insanity.

There was the sound of someone clearing his throat, and Draco realised that Potter wasn't alone. There was another, older Auror with him. The man held out his hand. Draco was surprised enough to take it and allow his own hand to be shaken.

"John Dawlish. Department of Magical Law Enforcement." Dawlish didn't seem to feel the need to introduce Potter. He turned to Draco's mother, who was gazing at the two men as if they were a couple of doxy corpses she'd discovered decaying beneath the carpet. "Mrs Malfoy, please know that we are extremely grateful for your co-operation, and we understand that this won't be easy for you or your son."

Draco was sure he saw Potter smirk out of the corner of his eye. He kept his face blank, but dug his fingernails into his palms. "Shall we get on with it, then?"

Dawlish turned back to him, nodded and then cast a spell that caused the wrought-iron gates to unlock and slowly swing open. The small party trudged through, following the gravel pathway. As they walked, Draco glanced at Potter. He was staring up at the Manor house as if he held a personal grudge against it. His jaw was set so tight, Draco wondered that Potter's teeth didn't crack. Tearing his eyes away, Draco glanced around at the ruins of the gardens. Cold vertigo washed over him as he took in the changes that had occurred since their departure. The hedges were overgrown, half-dead in places; the fountain was silent and dry; the peacocks were dead or escaped. It had been home, but no longer and never again.

Once inside the entrance hall, Dawlish disappeared in the direction of the study with Draco's mother. Draco turned to Potter, whose arms were crossed again, chin raised. Their eyes met and for several long moments they seemed to be trapped staring at each other, neither willing to break the gaze first.

Finally, Potter sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "The wine cellar. I need to see your wine cellar."

Draco nodded and turned. No point in arguing; it would only prolong the ghastliness. He continued down the hall, hearing Potter striding after him. When he got to the door of the drawing room, he paused. There was no path to the wine cellar that didn't necessitate travelling through it. He glanced quickly at Potter before opening the doors and then watched as Potter inhaled sharply and his entire body seemed to clench as he recognised where they were. Draco hadn't thought it was possible for Potter to exude yet more… outrage or indignation or murderousness or whatever it was that made him turn red and glare at Draco as if he wanted to tear his throat out with his teeth. Draco responded to his excessive hostility with a cold sneer, and flicked his wand at the chandelier to light their way.

"You have a new wand."

"Yes." Draco glanced at Potter, answering the question before it was asked. "French."

"Is it?" Potter looked vaguely interested. "What maker?"

"L'Argente."

"Oh." Potter continued peering at the wand curiously, the distraction apparently helping his face go back to its normal colour. There was something about his interest that irked Draco. He shoved his wand protectively back into his pocket.

They rounded a cabinet and finally reached the door that led down to the wine cellar. Draco opened it and then stood aside, gesturing for Potter to go first. Potter narrowed his eyes a fraction but then proceeded. When they got to the cellar floor, he turned to Draco and abruptly asked, "So the Hawthorne wand--it didn't work for you anymore after I sent it back?"

Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "It worked perfectly fine, despite your interference. Or well enough, at least," he snapped. "No. I lost it after… that night. At the Ministry."

"You ilost/i it?"

"Yes, I lost it. I had other things on my mind at the time." He didn't understand it himself. A wizard didn't lose his wand. It was as unthinkable as misplacing a limb. Yet, after that horrific evening at the Ministry, Draco's wand had vanished. At the time it had felt fitting, as if there had been some peculiar connection between losing his ability to perform magic and his father's death.

"Oh." Potter stared at the floor.

Draco crossed his arms and gazed at Potter, restraining a smirk in favour of a frosty stare. "Well, this is it. Do you need me to supervise, or shall I leave you to it?"

Potter's eyelashes fluttered, and then his face changed, grew not so much calm, but impassive. He squared his shoulders and straightened his spine.

Draco's brow creased, and then he got it. This was Potter the Auror. His eyes narrowed in amusement.

"All the wine served at the Ministry came from this cellar?"

"Yes."

"And who had access during the weeks leading up to the… incident?"

Draco answered Potter's tired list of questions automatically without having to think, without letting himself feel anything. They'd gone over everything with the DMLE repeatedly during the weeks and months following the deaths. The wine may have come from the Malfoy's wine cellar, but it was obvious to Draco--if not the Ministry--that it must have been tampered with after it had left the Manor.

"You naturally assume I'm guilty."

Potter looked at him steadily, his lips slightly pursed. Then he said, "I don't think you did it."

Draco looked back at him sharply. "No?"

Potter's expression was cold and firm. "No. Look--" his eyes flickered to the side and then back to Draco's face "--I know…Well, I just don't think you're the sort to commit mass murder." Potter's voice became quiet. "You couldn't even kill one person. And one of the victims was your father, so…"

"You know, there are plenty of people out there who fully believe I would have been happy to murder my own father," Draco snapped.

"There are plenty of people who would have congratulated you for doing it," Potter automatically snapped back.

He did have the decency to cringe after the tactless words left his mouth, but Draco wasn't in a tolerant mood. He felt his face flush so quickly it stung, and suddenly Potter had been shoved against the wall, and Draco's wand was pointed at his throat. "Take that back."

Potter ground the words out through gritted teeth whilst seemingly attempting to incinerate Draco with his eyes, "You aren't the only one who lost someone that night."

"iTake it back./i"

Potter pressed his lips tightly together, keeping his eyes fixed on Draco's.

Draco heard the high edge to his voice, but was unable to control it. "This is my house. My family home. You insult my father here, when his body is barely cold?" Potter's eyes snapped shut, and Draco's mouth twitched into a sick, shaky smile. "Why would they send you, Potter? Of all people? It's as if they want the investigation to fail."

Potter's eyes opened again, now burning even brighter. Draco could feel Potter's hand on his waist, his fingers digging in. "Because I imade/i them, Malfoy. Because I am going to find out who killed her, and I am going to make them pay. And your father held my friends and me captive in this ifamily home/i. Every horrible event in my life, your father was there, egging on Voldemort." He paused briefly, his eyes flicking back and forth between Draco's, and then took a quick breath before continuing. "Your father did his best to kill Ginny when she was only eleven years old. What kind of man tries to kill a child?"

Draco leaned forwards on Potter's shoulder with his palm, grinding it into the wall behind him, and thrust his wand deeper into the hollow at the base of his throat. "He did no such thing! How dare you make--"

Lifting his chin, Potter grinned and drew in a deep, hitching breath. "He gave her a Horcrux! Tom Riddle got a hold of her and it almost—"

"A Horcrux? That's ridiculous. Horcruxes are for immortality. Why would my father want to make a Weasley immortal?"

"He used the—Forget it! Never mind." Potter's fingers were trembling on Draco's waist. "Forty-eight innocent people died that night at the Ministry. I'm not grieving over iLucius bloody Malfoy./i"

A hiss escaped from between Draco's teeth. He felt his vision go blurry and a sharp web of pressure tightened over his skull. "And I'm not weeping for your ridiculous, ginger, blood traitor ichit/i Potter. I'm glad we've got that sett--"

There was a split second in which Potter's mouth fell open and his eyes widened. Then there was an explosion of pain in Draco's forehead as Potter butted into him, and they were both crashing to the floor. Potter's fist made contact with Draco's jaw, snapping his head to the side. Draco kept his grip tight on his wand, scratching at Potter's face with his free hand. His heart was beating so hard he thought it would burst, and he wanted to tear Potter to pieces, to make him scream. He wanted to take Potter's words, string them around his throat, and choke him.

Potter's fist connected with Draco's nose, and he felt hot blood splatter across his lips and chin. With a triumphant laugh, Potter hit him again. Draco felt something crunch this time and couldn't help but shriek with the pain of it. Potter had him pinned to the floor, one knee holding down a thigh. He was grinning and panting, his eyes were gleaming. One of Potter's hands gripped Draco's wrist, the other was raised to hit him again. He hadn't even drawn his wand.

Draco had.

First he cast a Revulsion Jinx, which threw Potter off him, making him smack back against the wall. Potter fell to the floor and finally his arm flashed and his wand was out.

"iStupefy!/i"

Draco dove to the side. The spell exploded against a rack of bottles, making them burst and shower the room with glass and wine. In Draco's eyes, Potter's figure was outlined in glowing red. He scrambled to his feet, his mind filled with hot static, overwhelming and incinerating his thoughts. The energy for the curse spiralled and grew automatically, sickeningly familiar; he raised his arm, pointing his wand at Potter's heaving figure.

"Cru…" Something in the back of his mind forced his teeth to clamp down on his tongue, keeping the final syllables from leaving his lips. He trembled and stumbled backwards, the unspoken curse eating away at his guts like acid, flooding his veins and muscles.

Potter laughed. "Do it! Go on, Malfoy, do it! You've always wanted to. And I know you've had plenty of practice."

Draco lowered his shaking arm. "Get out. Just get out. It was a terrible idea for you to come here. I'll be having words with Shacklebolt."

Potter glared at Draco, his lips moving slightly as if he were about to speak.

"Get out!" Draco shrieked, holding his hand over his throbbing nose. He didn't care how he looked; he just needed Potter gone, out of his sight, out of his house.

His eyes firmly locked on Draco's, Potter got to his feet. "I… You…" He swallowed, and then pushed his damp fringe out of his eyes. "You need to leave, too. We can't leave you here."

Ah. This wasn't Draco's home anymore. He forced the words out of his tight throat. "Of course." Draco gestured jerkily to the stairway. "Lead the way, iAuror/i Potter."

Finally, Potter tore his gaze away from Draco. For a moment he seemed blank. Then he whispered something vehement and unintelligible to himself and rubbed at his eyes with his hands. Draco blinked in amazement at Potter's carelessness in taking his eyes off Draco. If he had been the killer, Potter would now be completely at his mercy. Was he stupid or actually so arrogant that it was inconceivable to him that he could be wrong about Draco's lack of guilt? Both, most likely.

His mother quickly healed his nose, but the acrid taste of his aborted Curse stayed with Draco for the rest of the day, bubbling in the back of this throat like bile. Later, back at the flat, he lay stiffly on his bed, twirling his wand through his fingers as the words he and Potter had exchanged ran circularly through his mind. Each repetition left his stomach hot and tight and his pulse racing. The years seemed to have done nothing to mellow the friction between them.

Potter was as tactless, bloody-minded and self-absorbed as ever. The DMLE were a group of fools. A hitching sigh escaped from Draco's chest. He'd find his father's murderer, obstructive, incompetent Aurors or not. He'd find the person responsible, and he'd make him curse the day he was born.

Draco rolled over to rest on his stomach and then slid an arm under his pillow until his fingers wrapped around the cool silver hidden beneath it. He drew it out. Just holding the mirror in his hand brought him a measure of comfort. Laying it against his pillow, he gazed down into it. He ignored his tired looking reflection in favour of running his eyes along the beautifully wrought metal work of the frame.

"Hello," he whispered, waiting, hoping to hear the soft, dark, feminine voice respond. "Are you there? You wouldn't believe the day I've had."

The mirror was as sympathetic and comforting as she always was. Draco drifted off to sleep with her lying gently across his chest.

He dreamt of the tower again.

center /center

"Seventy five percent of them were Purebloods. It's bound to be mixed-blood extremists," said Ron, handing the waitress some Galleons after she delivered their drinks.

"There are mixed-blood extremists?" asked Hermione, looking affronted.

"There are every kind of extremists," Ron responded. "You'd be amazed at the variety of mental running rampant in the wizarding world. I've learned things, since I became an Auror," he tapped the side of his nose and then took a drink from his pint. "There's this one group—the Occularists, they call themselves—they're trying to get a law passed that would make everyone have to get a third eye implanted in the middle of their forehead."

"Oh! I've heard of them," said Hermione. "We had some paperwork come through in the office. They've actually got some valid points. In Egypt, for example—"

"Malfoy's involved somehow. I know it," interrupted Harry.

Ron and Hermione both turned to look at him.

"Well, he certainly knows his way around a poison bottle," said Ron.

"Yeah," replied Harry, shaking his head.

"Is that likely, Harry? After all, his father—"

"I know!" He hadn't meant to snap, and shot Hermione an apologetic glance. "I know. I don't think he's behind it. But he knows something. I… I can just tell. You know how he is when he's up to no good."

Harry remained hunched over his firewhisky as his friends stared at him. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Malfoy since their altercation at Malfoy Manor. Questioning him had gone badly, to put it mildly. Just seeing Malfoy had been agitating. The man seemed to needle Harry in a way that made the past five years vanish, turning him into a surly schoolboy again. Walking through that room—the room where Bellatrix Lestrange had tortured Hermione and killed Dobby, where she and Malfoy's father had fought over who would turn him in to Voldemort—had triggered him in a way he'd hoped he'd outgrown.

Hermione was right. It wasn't likely Malfoy was involved with the murders, but Harry had to know for sure. He had to know what Malfoy was up to.

Finally, Ron broke the silence. "Did you get anything out of him the other day?"

Harry glanced to the side. "Er… Not really."

"They should have let me go with you. I'd have got him to talk."

"That probably wouldn't have actually helped matters. And I doubt Kingsley will let me stay on the case now."

"Well, what then?" Ron was getting distressed. "It's been six months and we've got nothing. Mum… she expects me to—"

"I know. I know, Ron. Believe me."

There was another silence.

"Two more this week," Harry said. "The Mellons. A husband and wife. She was strangled, he died of a blow to the head."

"You've been doing everything you can," said Hermione.

"Have we?" Harry took a swallow of firewhisky, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat.

"Mixed-blood extremists," said Ron.

"What does the evidence say?"

"That the wine was poisoned," Harry responded. "That we don't know when or how. It could have happened anytime in the two weeks leading up to the commemoration. The wine was stored in the kitchen cupboards off the Atrium where the celebrations were held. Potentially hundreds of people had access. Motivation for the killings… there are various theories. Kingsley thinks Death Eater sympathisers, Dawlish thinks it's someone disgruntled with the new Ministry…"

"Mixed—" Ron began, and then crossed his arms with a "hmph" when Hermione placed a quelling hand on his arm.

"Malfoy knows something. Or someone close to him does."

"Well, honestly, Harry, then why hasn't he told you? Isn't he just as motivated to find the killer as you are?"

"I don't know." Harry drained the remains of his drink. "I'm going to find out, though."

Ron and Hermione both gave him their full attention.

"You said you were going to be taken off the case," said Ron.

Harry shrugged.

"Oh, Harry," said Hermione.

"You've got a plan?" Ron looked eager.

"More like a hunch."

"Just be careful. Don't do anything silly."

"What, me?" asked Harry, flashing Hermione a small grin.

And he was careful. His Invisibility Cloak still did the job, and Malfoy showed no sign of realising that Harry had been following him.

It wasn't as if he was doing anything wrong, he told himself. He was just…watching Malfoy. That was it. And if Malfoy happened to do or say something that gave Harry a clue as to what had happened to Ginny, well, so much the better.

He didn't, though. Malfoy's life was actually pretty boring. He went to Gringotts. He met his mother for dinner at fancy restaurants. He once made a sudden and seemingly urgent detour into an alleyway, and Harry got excited. It turned out he was only avoiding Blaise Zabini, however. Strange. Strange and a little bit sad, Harry couldn't help thinking.

Or maybe not too strange. Ron and Hermione were different, of course, but Harry had been avoiding most of his old friends himself. He shuddered, thinking of the brief and horribly awkward conversation he'd had with Seamus after running into him in the lift at the Ministry. Seamus had been falling over himself to offer Harry condolences, and Harry had been desperate to escape.

He didn't want condolences. Condolences only made his memories vivid and intolerable.

Then, late one afternoon, Harry watched as Narcissa Malfoy exited the Malfoy flat carrying several small suitcases. She Disapparated, and about an hour later, Malfoy came out. Harry immediately noticed that something was different about him. He looked polished. His hair was slicked smoothly back and he was wearing dark grey robes cut so finely that even Harry could tell that they were stylish. He had a puckish, anticipatory expression on his face that made his eyes… glitter. That could have just been his robes bringing out their colour, though. Harry shook his head to clear it. As Malfoy swept down the stone steps that led from his front door, Harry caught a whiff of citrus cologne. Very interesting. Then he let something small and white fall to the street and Disapparated, leaving Harry with nerves smarting from frustration.

He snatched up the object Malfoy had dropped. It was a card, an invitation, apparently. Harry's eyes dashed over the words, coming to rest on "Knockturn Alley."

iHah./i

Harry Apparated to the street just outside the turn into Knockturn Alley. He dashed around the corner and, sure enough, spied a white blond head moving in the distance. Swerving to avoid the few other witches and wizards on the street, Harry rushed after Malfoy. Fortunately, Malfoy was not in such a hurry, and Harry easily caught up to him.

It felt good, this—following Malfoy. Harry knew he was on the right track because the ache in the pit of his stomach was telling him so. It felt familiar, absorbing enough to make him feel as if he was finally doing something worthwhile in his effort to find Ginny's killer.

Malfoy came to a halt. Harry stumbled a bit to avoid bumping into him. That would have been embarrassing. Malfoy seemed to be examining a bit of wall. Harry followed his gaze, but couldn't see anything special about the bricks. When Malfoy glanced up and down the street--clearly checking to see if he was being watched--Harry felt a thrill run up his spine. He was right. Malfoy was up to something.

Apparently satisfied that he was unobserved, Malfoy reached forward with his long fingers and stroked the bricks. They shimmered, and he stepped forwards through them, disappearing into the wall. Harry had a moment of panic, but when he touched the bricks himself and then moved to follow Malfoy, he slid through the wall as easily as if he were on Platform 9 ¾.

One day, he'd get used to this sort of thing, Harry mused to himself as the sudden shock of light and music left him momentarily deaf and blind. After the five minutes it took for his senses to readjust, Harry looked around. It was a club. A crowded club filled with colourful lights and loud, thrumming music. The place was cavernous, literally, its walls seemed to have been carved from shiny black stone that caught all sound and tossed it back again. It would have been difficult to hold any kind of a conversation, but as Harry looked around more carefully it occurred to him that conversation wasn't the aim of the wizards occupying the place. He swallowed; mind momentarily paralysed as it was bombarded with too many thoughts and realisations at once.

Harry slunk away, carefully trying to avoid making physical contact with anyone lest he give himself away beneath his Cloak. A tall man wearing black leather robes knocked hard into his shoulder and then spun around, confused. Hunching down, making himself as small as he could, Harry scanned the club. There was no sign of Malfoy. Feeling rather hot, he wove through the crowd, searching. Finally, he spied Malfoy leaning back against the end of the bar, chatting with a wizard with shoulder length auburn hair. Harry couldn't hear what they were saying, but it was clear even from a distance that something was passing between them. Their eyes were locked on each other; the longhaired man leaned in close to Malfoy, his lips almost brushing his cheek. A dribble of sweat trickled down Harry's neck.

The throb of the music, the sweeping lights, and the constant movement of bodies around him blended into a sensory blur as Harry watched Malfoy and the strange man. Nothing was making any sense. A fierce line of tension twisted in his chest; his muscles were tingling with adrenaline. The auburn-haired wizard now had his mouth a centimetre from Malfoy's ear and was running his thumb up and down his arm.

The two men seemed to settle whatever it was they'd been discussing and started moving through the crowd together. With a jolt, Harry realised that he was directly in their path. He stumbled backwards just in time. As Malfoy brushed by him, however, Harry was once again hit with the smell of his cologne, now tinged with the sharp and musky smell of his sweat. He lost his footing, fell back on his arse and had to scramble up – carefully keeping his Cloak draped around him – to follow Malfoy and the other man out of the club.

Harry Apparated to outside Malfoy's flat just in time to scurry in after the two men before the door was shut. It was a miracle that he wasn't caught out, but by this time Malfoy and his new friend were distracted. Harry gaped as the other wizard shoved Malfoy up against the wall and began kissing him. Malfoy responded enthusiastically, thrusting his fingers into the man's hair.

Harry knew he'd made a mistake; he knew it was time to leave. Somehow, however, he wasn't able to. He felt frozen, and when the men stumbled into the drawing room together, Harry followed them, his mind clear of any rational thought.

Malfoy's companion had pushed him down on the sofa and was unfastening his robes, pulling down his underpants. Arousal burst through Harry's body at the sight, like a detonation, making him crouch suddenly forwards. It was like being unexpectedly slammed in the face by an ocean wave and just as disorienting. As Malfoy tossed his head back, exposing his long pale throat and the wizard at his knees bent his own neck forwards, lips reaching towards Malfoy's cock, Harry staggered backwards, finally intending to flee.

His shoulder knocked into the back of a chair, pushing it and making its legs screech against the floor. He veered away from it in panic, and in his haste he stepped on the edge of his Cloak and got it tangled between his legs. Losing his balance, he fell to his knees with a yelp and a thud, feeling the fabric of the Cloak shiver against his skin as it was pulled off him.

Sweat dripped down the back of his neck but his skin suddenly felt very cold. Gingerly, he let his eyes focus. Two shocked faces were gaping at him. Malfoy jerked his robes closed and said, "Potter?!"

"I… er…" Harry got shakily to his feet, gathering his cloak up in his hands. His face was blisteringly hot and his chest felt like it was being crushed in a vise. Was there anything he could possibly say to lessen the humiliation and horror of this situation?

Malfoy stared; then he broke into a grin, his face alight with equal amounts of outrage and elation.

Nope. There wasn't.

"Fuck," said Harry, and then spun and Apparated away.

center /center

Draco was standing in the study.

He had no idea why.

Grief did funny things to the mind, Draco thought as he walked over to his desk to rifle through some investment documents as if that had been his intention all along. The words and numbers swam before his eyes. He couldn't focus. He'd always been sharp, quick and directed, but lately his mind wandered; his thoughts became muddled. He'd find himself sitting in the drawing room or the kitchen--the middle of Diagon Alley once--having no idea when or how he'd got there. His mother would ask him how he'd spent the afternoon, and he wouldn't be able to answer her.

It was distressing.

He glanced at the day's iProphet/i, his eyes skimming over the headlines. More murders, apparently. The DMLE was doing nothing, and with people like Potter in their midst it was no wonder. Remembering, he couldn't help but snicker. Harry Potter--Peeping Tom. At least he'd shown enough imagination to use his blasted Invisibility Cloak for something interesting this time.

Giving up on the parchments, Draco stood, stretching and cracking his spine, and then left the library to go to his bedroom. Once there, he flopped down on his back on his bed, flung out his right arm, and began feeling about in the top drawer of his bedside table. As his fingers made contact, he smiled. The mirror. His mirror. He tickled his fingers against it until he was able get a proper grip and then held it to his face. His own image looked back at him, blinking slowly, warm and hopeful.

"Are you there?"

"Constantly, my sweet. Always, for you." Her voice was soft, deep and liquid. It reverberated through Draco's fingers where he grasped the mirror's handle, travelling through his arm and into his chest.

Draco smiled and started to relax. Despite the fact that he was alone, he whispered. "Potter's following me again. It would be amusing if it weren't so incredibly irritating. He actually snuck into the flat under that Invisibility Cloak of his the other day. Nearly saw me getting a blowjob from some redhead I'd picked up. You should have seen his face when I caught him." Draco grinned into the glass. "It just about made it worthwhile. And I got the blow job anyway after he fled."

"That Potter sounds perfectly dreadful, my sweet. Tell me more about him. We can plan your revenge. You're so very cruel and clever when you need to be."

"I am rather," continued Draco, smiling and snuggling his head into his pillow. "He's always been a thorn in my side. Thought he was something special just because he didn't idie/i when he was supposed to."

"Yes," the mirror quickly replied, "tell me about that. Tell me more about how the Dark Lord tried to kill him."

"Later," said Draco, running his finger fondly across the top of the mirror's frame. "I'm trying to decide whether I want to report him or not. It would be great to see him get what he deserves for once, but it might be smarter to wait and see if I can use it for something better in the future. You know--bring the incident up at a time when it would suit my purposes."

The mirror was silent. Draco shook it a bit.

"I'm sure you'll come up with something wonderful, my darling. Your blood is pure and your mind is sharp and elegant. You said the Dark Lord rose again when you were fourteen?"

"Stop asking me about him. It gives me a headache."

"But, my sweet—"

Scowling, Draco rolled over and shoved the mirror under his pillow. Why would a mirror be so interested in the Dark Lord? It ruined the feeling of comfort he usually got from conversations with her. Disappointed, he curled up on his side and considered taking a nap. He'd been particularly tired lately.

Then the doorbell rang.

center /center

Harry felt as if he was vibrating. Tension thrummed through his muscles and his throat felt tight and sore. He was unable to look away from Malfoy's shoes.

"Well?" asked Malfoy, his voice dripping with glee.

"Mmph…"

"Pardon? Did you want to rifle though my belongings? Maybe watch me take a shower or something??"

Harry dug his fingernails into his sweaty palms. His jaw was twitching. "I…" He felt breathless with humiliation. "I wanted to apologise. About the other night."

"You mean the other night when you gained unlawful entry into my home in order to watch me getting a blow job?"

Harry grimaced and ground his teeth together. iGit, bastard, wanker, prat./i With an effort of will, he forced himself to look up and meet Malfoy's eyes. The ibastard/i looked like a kid on Christmas morning. "I wasn't intending to watch you get--I didn't mean to see that."

"How much exactly did you see?"

Harry's face burned. "Does it matter?"

"Well. It matters in that I need to know if I should bring you up on charges of breaking and entering or if I can go the whole hog and get you for stalking, too."

Harry's eyes fell closed and he groaned softly to himself. "Look, I just… I had no idea what you were going to do with that bloke."

"I had been intending to have him bend me over the back of the sofa and bugger me, but after the interruption, I just don't think he had it in him anymore."

Harry ripped his gaze away. He took a step back and almost tumbled down the steps. Forcing himself together, he hissed, "Can we talk about this indoors? Please?" Malfoy cocked his head to the side with a smirk that made Harry want to knock his nose through the back of his skull.

"All right." He turned and strolled back through the entrance hall. Harry followed, closing the front door behind him.

Once they were in the drawing room, Draco flopped down on the sofa and grinned cattishly up at Harry. Harry's eyes flicked to the back of the sofa, and a visual image that made him feel extremely uncomfortable flashed through his mind. Malfoy laughed. As if he could tell.

iBastard./i

"You're rather shit at apologies, you know. In fact, I have yet to hear you actually make one. Not even after you nearly slaughtered me in sixth year."

"You mean like how you never apologised for smashing my nose? I thought that maybe keeping you from getting burnt to a crisp in the Room of Requirement might have served as a kind of actions-speaking-louder-than-words thing, but apparently not."

Malfoy's posture stiffened and his expression became glacial. "No, Potter. You are rather spectacularly dreadful at apologies."

Harry pushed his glasses up and rubbed at his eyes. Fine. Like removing a plaster, then. He lowered his hands and said, "I'm sorry."

Malfoy scowled.

"Okay. But I really am. If I'd known what you were up to, I never would have followed you home in the first place."

Blinking rapidly, Malfoy asked, "Exactly how long had you been following me?"

"Since you left your flat."

"You followed me to the club?"

Harry nodded, his arms folded across his chest. "It was all work related, of course. I did guess what kind of place it was once I was inside, but I figured—"

Malfoy jerked and sat up straight, his hands gripping the seat of the sofa. "Wait. What?"

"I thought you could be having some kind of meeting or exchange. I—"

"You were iin/i the club? You got in?"

"Well, I saw what you did and I just… followed. It wasn't difficult."

Malfoy stared at Harry as if he'd never seen him before.

"What? What's so important about my getting into the club?"

Malfoy's expression was strange and indecipherable. His eyes were wide and his mouth twisted. There were bright spots of pink blooming on his cheeks. Abruptly, he stood. "Then you must have known." He stepped up close to Harry, his eyes narrowed but gleaming.

Harry refused to back away, but moved his feet slightly further apart and crossed his arms across his chest, shaking his head. "I don't know what you mean."

"What exactly were you hoping to see that night, Potter? Would you have revealed yourself at all if you hadn't been clumsy enough to fall out of your Cloak? You wanted to watch him fuck me, didn't you?"

iOh…/i His face stinging with heat, Harry glared at Malfoy. Flashes of… ithings/i--things involving Malfoy and the other man, the back of the sofa, the man's lips parting as they neared Malfoy's thick, pink cock--kept tangling his thoughts together. He could feel his heart thumping hard in his chest. "That... that's your little fantasy, is it?" His lips felt swollen, his tongue clumsy.

"iMy/i fantasy?" Draco jabbed at Harry's chest with his finger. "You're the one who followed me to a gay club and then back home again. You're the one who waited until I was half naked…"

"Shut up," Harry whispered, his voice catching in his throat. "I… I came here to apologise, not to… to…"

"I know exactly why you came here, Potter." His eyes were aglow with malicious delight.

Harry kept his arms tightly crossed so as to keep himself from punching Malfoy, but when Malfoy lifted his finger to poke him again, Harry's hand snapped out and grabbed his wrist.

"iLet go of me!"/i Malfoy's face was now creased with what looked like rage.

"What—?"

Harry huffed in surprise as Malfoy suddenly leapt at him, making them both crash downwards. Harry's head smacked back onto the floor and a burst of light filled his mind. Malfoy was gripping his hair tightly enough to make his scalp sting. His other hand was gripping Harry's shoulder equally hard and his knee was shoved up high between Harry's legs. He cursed himself for being taken so off guard. The wind had been knocked from him by the fall, but he couldn't pull a new breath because Malfoy was blocking his mouth with his own. Harry struggled beneath him, panicking, trying to throw him off. Then Malfoy's tongue was in his mouth and suddenly his entire worldview shifted.

A burst of scorching excitement flowered at the base of his spine and shot upwards, spreading through his chest and abdomen and curling tightly in his groin. It was like something he'd been holding fast inside himself--something that had been struggling, fighting, tearing him up--had been finally set free. The exhilaration burned through his mind—a consuming explosion of pleasure and relief—and he couldn't think, didn't want to think, just wanted to ride it, take it, have it. Malfoy made a whimpering sound into his mouth and tightened his fingers in Harry's hair. Harry had no idea what he was doing, but his body seemed to, and he let it take control.

Harry twisted and shoved himself upwards and to the side, forcing Malfoy over and under him. Malfoy's hand in his hair hurt, so Harry grabbed it and yanked it free before forcing it down on the floor above Malfoy's head. Malfoy, his eyes shooting sparks up towards Harry, clouted him on the side of the face with his free hand. Harry snarled and bent down to kiss him again. He could kiss him as hard as he liked without worrying about hurting him. They were biting each other, sucking, licking. Harry was rock hard and frotting uncontrollably against Malfoy's crotch.

He tore his mouth from Malfoy's lips and turned to his neck to bite it. As he sunk in his teeth, Malfoy cried out and then moaned helplessly. Harry released him and then moved his face lower until he reached the top of his robes. Cursing, he yanked his wand out of his back pocket and mumbled a spell. His wand flashed downwards, slitting the black fabric like butter. He pushed it aside and then immediately bent to bite at his throat again. Malfoy had wrapped his legs around Harry's arse and was grinding his hips against Harry's. He was grinding his cock against Harry's…

A bright flash of clarity sliced through Harry's mind, and he abruptly pushed himself up on his arms. Malfoy lay panting beneath him, his white blond hair askew across creamy, pink-flushed skin. His mouth was slightly open, upper lip pulled back to reveal the tips of his canine teeth. His eyes glittered beneath half-open lids and long, colourless lashes, but any illusions of ipretty/i were immediately wiped away by Malfoy's cutting voice.

"Don't you dare chicken out on me." He reached up and grabbed another handful of Harry's hair, yanking him back downwards.

With the need in his belly burning through the panic, Harry gave in, kissing Malfoy back, trembling as Malfoy gave a long, deep moan that reverberated through his mouth.

He had a vague idea of what to do and made to do it. Malfoy's clothes were already half off. Harry pulled open the front of his own robes, then fumbled his fly open and pushed down his jeans and boxers as Malfoy wriggled out of his pants beneath him. Malfoy's cock bobbed against his pale stomach, and Harry almost froze again. Then Malfoy had taken both of their cocks in his hand and was stroking them together. The feeling was indescribable. Arousal rushed through Harry's muscles in a violent wave that extinguished all further doubt. He pushed Malfoy's thighs apart with his knees, grabbed his cock in his hand and began pressing at Malfoy's arse.

"Salazar's scrotum," whispered Malfoy, jerking away and then thrusting his wand down between the two of them. Harry bit off a yelp as his cock was suddenly coated with something cool and wet. Malfoy rolled his eyes, and seemed to be trying to do something with Harry's fingers. Harry couldn't wait any longer; he felt with the tip of his cock until he found Malfoy's entrance and then thrust inwards. Malfoy shrieked.

Harry stilled, breathless from the intensity of the sensation, and gasped out, "Are you okay?"

Malfoy's eyes were squeezed shut and his teeth were bared in a grimace. He took several deep breaths through his nostrils, and then nodded.

"Sure?"

Malfoy opened his eyes and gave Harry a fierce glare. "You going to fuck me or not?"

With a growl, Harry began to thrust into Malfoy. He was so tight and hot, so ihot/i, and Harry felt as if his skin was burning. The desire consumed him as he moved hard and fast, unable to slow down or gentle his actions if he'd wanted to. Malfoy's face was clenched; he looked as if he was in agony, but his hips were moving in time with Harry's. He was panting in rhythm, making soft moans that got higher and higher in sound each time Harry thrust into him. Harry began fucking Malfoy vigorously; his hips slammed repeatedly against Malfoy's arse, he was pushing him across the carpet. A flurry of movement against his stomach pulled his eyes downwards and he saw that Malfoy was fisting his own cock, his cries high and desperate until finally he shouted. Harry watched transfixed as Malfoy's cock jumped in his fist and shot spurts of come up onto his chest. The sight pushed him over the edge and he gasped and gave a broken cry as his own pleasure erupted violently through his body.

A couple more reflexive thrusts and Harry collapsed, panting heavily. His eyes were closed, and he kept them that way. His body felt strange and wobbly. iBastard/i he thought, and then let his mind melt away into bliss.

After several long moments, Harry felt Malfoy's hands pressing up on his shoulders. Carefully, he pulled himself free and rolled over onto his back. As the remains of his post orgasmic glow began to fade away, Harry stared at the ceiling. It was edged with intricately patterned coving. There was a mural involving unicorns and trees painted in the center. It felt appropriately surreal.

What the Hell was he supposed to do now? His heart was still beating far too fast and he felt cold and shaky. Get dressed. That was the first order of business.

He turned his head to look at Malfoy and saw that he was similarly lying flat on his back, head turned to look at Harry. His face looked flushed and utterly shocked. Harry was sure his own expression was a mirror of Malfoy's.

"You know, Potter? I had absolutely no idea you were queer. Did you know? I mean before…this?"

It was like he'd had ice water thrown in his face. "I'm not—I'm not queer. I..." He pushed himself up, feeling sick, dizzy and desperately confused. He couldn't be queer. He'd always fancied girls. Ginny—

iOh God./i

iGinny./i

Harry drew up his knees and rested his head against them, hugging his legs with his arms and riding the wave of fresh, pungent grief and guilt that had taken hold of his body.

What had he done? Barely more than seven months had passed.

Malfoy started to laugh.

Harry jerked his head up to look at him, feeling his face twist with fury. Malfoy was still lying down, but his neck was arched back and his hands were on his chest.

"Oh, Potter. You sweet thing. You didn't know, did you?"

"Just shut the fuck up, Malfoy. You have no idea—"

Malfoy shot him an evil look. "I'll have to get Rita Skeeter on the floo. I'm sure she'll—"

"If you so much as—"

The laughter got louder. "Ha! Oh, Potter! As if I would, you are too easy. But can you imagine the headlines?" Malfoy turned onto his side and curled up, shaking. "It would cause a civil war! Another one! Oh, I can't take it."

Gathering up his clothing and quickly pulling them on, Harry shouted a stream of curse words at Malfoy, who just kept on laughing.

That laughter. It would drive him mad. He had to get out. He turned and stormed out of the room.

"These robes were magically woven by Norwegian snow elves, Potter," Malfoy shouted after him, his voice still broken with amusement. "I'll have to send them off to be repaired. Shall I send the bill to your home or your office?"

Harry ran the rest of the distance out of Malfoy's flat and slammed the door behind him.

center /center

The image remained with Draco for several long moments after he awoke: a tall, white tower in a dark and empty moor. A sense of cold horror accompanied the dream, but it flickered away with the return of consciousness, to be replaced by wicked delight.

Potter fancied him.

It was too funny, too delicious. All that pent-up fury. It must have been going on for years, back since they were in school. Draco washed and dressed and then went down to breakfast where he found his mother already seated at the table.

He sat down and sniggered quietly into his coffee.

"Something amusing, darling?" asked his mother, absently stirring her own coffee with a silver teaspoon. She'd returned from Paris early that morning. The trip seemed to have done her some good--her face was still pale, but not as grey as it had been for the last few months. Draco looked at her carefully, hoping the change in her appearance had to do with more than just the magical skin treatments she'd had on her holiday.

She met his gaze, eyes sharp and inquisitive. Draco reckoned he'd keep his news to himself for the moment. "Just… life, mother. Life is amusing."

"Mmm. Yes. Life." She lifted her cup to her lips and took a tiny sip, one eyebrow raised.

Draco's eyes dipped, and he pursed his lips to keep her from seeing him smirk to himself. There had to be a way he could use this new development to his advantage. Potter iwanted/i him. How ridiculously delightful. He shifted in his chair and took a bite of his toast.

The sex had been good--surprisingly good. Well, Potter had been awful, of course, clumsy, selfish and impatient with absolutely no idea what he was doing. Still. It had been good. Draco had lost himself for a while, and Potter… Draco let his eyelids fall closed, momentarily overcome with sense memory.

The owl's arrival startled him out of his reverie.

He could see the parchment carried a Ministry seal and a thrill of excitement rushed though his chest. Potter was summoning him. Already!

His mother looked less than delighted. Keeping her eyes on Draco, she snatched the parchment from the owl's leg and then shooed it away with a brush of her fingers. As the bird took off through the window, she cracked the letter's seal and smoothed it open, her eyes travelling quickly down through the words.

Draco reached to grab the letter, but she jerked it away from him, an angry flush breaking out across her cheekbones as she read. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were dark with fury. Draco's toast caught in his throat.

"It was just a one-time thing," he choked, "an accident really. I promise, I'll—"

"Hush, Draco."

He snapped his mouth shut.

"It says," she lifted the letter and held it by the very tips of her fingers as if it were something filthy, "you are to go to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for further questioning."

iFurther questioning/i thought Draco, biting the inside of his cheek. iIs that what they're calling it these days?/i

"Draco! I can't imagine what you're finding so amusing. They say they have a witness."

The smirk melted from his face. "What?"

"Some iperson/i has come forward saying they saw you behaving suspiciously at the time of the murders."

Draco stared at her.

Her voice became sharp and thin as a wire. "The disrespect. It is astounding. They won't be happy until our name is dirt." Draco reached for the letter, but his mother held it out of his reach. "I'll floo Gerard at the firm while you're out. Don't tell them ianything/i, Draco."

"What could I tell them?" he asked, all pleasure at his recollections churning into acid.

"Blasted Muggle-loving vultures!" She slammed her hand to the table along with the letter.

Draco made a grab for it. As soon as his fingers made contact, the queasiness in the pit of his stomach became a tug, and he was off.

He resurfaced in a bare, empty room. Shocked and disoriented, he staggered until he hit the wall. The letter had been a Portkey, tuned especially to him, apparently. Feeling grateful that he'd bothered to dress for breakfast that morning, Draco shook his head to clear it and then stormed towards the door. It was locked, of course. He pounded on it with his fists for all he was worth, shouting in fury and frustration. "I'll have you, Potter! No one treats me this way."

The door flew open, thrusting Draco backwards, and a figure entered. It took all of Draco's self-control to keep from flying at it. Instead, he pulled his wand only to feel it immediately slip through his fingers. Flipping his hair out of his eyes, he forced himself to focus. Not Potter--Weasley, smirking and gripping Draco's wand in his fist. It hit Draco that he might actually be in some trouble.

He curled his hands into fists and narrowed his eyes, stepping back away from Weasley and his gleeful, hungry grin. "You'll be hearing from my solicitor about this."

"Better have them use Azkaban as a return address, then."

Draco scowled.

"Sorry about the surprise Portkey. We find it the quickest, simplest method of handling things in these sorts of situations."

"Ah. So it wasn't something special you arranged just for me, then?"

"And we wouldn't want you bolting off down some ferret hole. Not now that we've got you bang to rights."

Draco swallowed. "You say you have a witness? It's impossible. I've done nothing."

Weasley snorted, and marched right up to Draco, standing no further than an inch away and looking him directly in the eye. "You've had it, Malfoy. Make it easy on yourself and confess."

"I've nothing to confess to!" Draco stepped away until his back was to the wall and Weasley followed him step for step.

"You've always had it in for my family," growled Weasley.

"My family has suffered as much as yours! And we didn't have an extra." Draco was breathless. "What's one Weasley more or less when you've got so many to spare?"

Weasley's hand shot out to grip his throat.

"Do you want him to break your jaw, Malfoy? Because if you go on like that, I'm going to let him."

There was Potter.

Draco looked over Weasley's shoulder and saw Potter standing quietly in the doorway, looking tired and avoiding Draco's eyes.

Indignation and relief warred in Draco's head. "So, you've changed your mind, have you? I'm guilty, now?"

Potter finally looked at him but said nothing. His lips were pressed together. Something unpleasant tightened in Draco's chest. He held Potter's gaze, hoping he was communicating a wide variety of threats and accusations with his eyes. Eventually, Potter looked at the floor, his hair falling to hide his face.

"Probably best for you to go look after Mr. Verlo, Ron. I think he's got a bit more to say."

Holding his glare on Malfoy, Weasley released his throat. He took a step back, showily twirling Draco's wand between his fingers before shoving it into his own pocket. "No problem. This room is starting to stink of rodent, anyway."

Once they were alone, Potter made some elaborate movements with his wand, and two folding chairs shimmered into existence. Draco was impressed despite himself. They sat, and after Potter was finished ensuring that his hair was a mess, he looked at Draco again.

"I need you to tell me exactly what you remember about the night your father was murdered."

"Why? You were there. You saw everything that I saw."

Now that Draco was able to properly examine Potter's face, he realised that he looked positively exhausted.

"Our witness says he saw you casting spells during the period of darkness. He says you had some kind of a magical box that…"

"He saw all this despite the fact that everyone else was blinded?"

Potter worried his lower lip with his teeth for a moment, eyes flicking between Draco's. "Some people with Peruvian heritage have an immunity to the Darkness Powder."

Draco raised his chin and increased the intensity of his gaze. "Odd timing this, don't you think?"

Potter's head fell forward. For a moment, he was silent. Then, "Yeah."

"What am I to imagine, Potter? You come to my home. You seduce me. And not two days later, you dredge up some ridiculous--"

"Seduce you?!"

Draco had Potter's full attention again. He smiled. "Oh, that's right. You're still in denial. It must have all been some sort of… accident."

Potter's irises darkened, while his cheeks brightened to red. "This isn't the time to talk about it."

Draco leaned back and slowly licked his lips. "No? Shall we wait until my solicitor is present?"

Oh yes. His ifull/i attention. Eyes the colour of seawater in a storm and entirely focused on Draco.

There was a crash as the door shot open and Weasley burst back into the room. He took a second to glare menacingly at Draco, then, regretfully, said, "He's an Occularist. Mr. Verlo. He's not Peruvian at all. 'It's my spiritual third eye. Nothing escapes my vision,' he said."

Potter started and then closed his eyes for several longs seconds, exhaling slowly through his nostrils, his shoulders falling forwards. "Well that's that then. He's a nutter. His evidence is useless."

Weasley didn't have the grace to apologise, of course. "Don't think this lets you off the hook, Malfoy." He did give Draco back his wand before he left the room again, however. Draco wiped it off on his robes before pocketing it, making sure Weasley saw him do so.

Draco and Potter were left alone then, standing quietly, examining each other.

Finally, Potter blurted out, "I still didn't think you were guilty, you know."

Draco shrugged. "Does it matter? I'm not particularly worried about your opinion of me. I'll always be irredeemable in your eyes. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. Remember?"

"Maybe I don't really believe that."

Potter's eyes were so clear and guileless. He was gazing at Draco steadily, direct and earnest. Draco could count on one hand the number of times anyone had looked at him that way. Feeling an irrepressible itch to wipe the expression from Potter's face, he held out his left arm and yanked his sleeve up. "What about this, then?"

Draco watched as Potter glanced at his tattoo, the barest grey etched against his pale skin. Potter sighed. When he looked back at Draco his face held something far too close to pity for Draco's liking. Curling his lip, Draco hurriedly rolled his sleeve back down, covering the mark.

"That's not what I meant," said Potter. "I know," he gestured with his hand towards Draco's arm, "about that. I knew about it in our sixth year, or at least had a pretty good idea. What I meant was… The other choices you made… The ones I saw you make…" Potter shifted on his feet. "There's more to you than that faded tattoo, Malfoy. If I didn't believe that, you'd be in Azkaban right now."

Something raw and sharp-clawed scrabbled about in Draco's gut. Insults--words of attack--floated through his mind, but somehow they didn't make it as far as his lips.

Red. Potter's lips were red from where he'd been chewing on them.

There were different methods of attack, after all, some subtler than others.

"You think so, do you? Or is that just what you're telling yourself because it's necessary if you want to fuck me?" Draco smirked at Potter's expression of shock and affront and moved towards him. Potter went very still, watching Draco approach, his eyes wide and wary. "And you do want to fuck me, don't you?" Running his hands slowly up the other man's chest until they rested on his shoulders, Draco leaned in close to whisper in his ear. "Because you can." Potter inhaled sharply. "You have my express permission. You don't have to hit me or even pick a fight first. If you want me… just take me." Potter shuddered against Draco and gave a little closed mouthed moan. Draco smiled and moved his lips closer, biting gently down on Potter's earlobe.

As if he'd been holding himself back, Potter lunged towards Draco and shoved him roughly against the wall. He forced Draco's hands back and held them still on either side of his head. Then Potter kissed him, hard and rough, a bit too much teeth and not enough lip, but nevertheless Draco felt a violent, tingling shiver of lust rush through his body. Fuck. iFuck./i This, this was it. What he'd wanted for so damn long without even realising. How could he have missed it, all those nights at school tossing and turning in his bed, unable to get the image of Potter's face out of his mind – his accusatory eyes, his sneering mouth, his words running through Draco's head until Draco had to wank himself raw imagining performing all and any kind of degradation upon him.

Arching his neck to allow Potter to lick and bite at it, Draco lifted his knee and wrapped his leg around Potter's thigh, pulling their hips together. Potter was as hard as he was. Draco thrust up against him and responded to Potter's resultant cry with a raw groan. Potter pulled away and Draco whined, but after locking the door, casting Muffliato and then Colloportus for good measure, Potter pressed forwards against him. He slid his hands between the parting of Draco's robes, under his shirt and up the bare skin of his back, scratching his nails across his skin. Draco slid his fingers into Potter's thick, silky, ridiculous hair and arched towards him, thrusting forwards again. Potter began to pull off Draco's clothes. Draco helped him, shrugging off his robes and tugging at the fly of Potter's jeans. In no time, Draco was completely naked and Potter's jeans were around his ankles and his shirt shoved up beneath his armpits.

Potter was showing evidence of forgetting about lube again, so Draco quickly and urgently whispered the words of the spell into his ear. There was a fumbling, awkward moment in which Potter had to bend down to find his wand and then make several attempts to get the spell right and properly applied. He got it in the end, though.

This time, Potter fucked him slowly and deliberately. The gasps and whines he made with each thrust were delicious, so arousing. Draco gripped his straining hips tightly between his thighs, hanging onto Potter's back as forcefully as Potter was gripping his arse. Draco whispered advice into his ear, encouraging him to find the right angle, and when he did, Draco whimpered with pleasure. Potter must have felt his arse clench around him, because he began to pump into him quicker and harder.

"Christ, Malfoy. You're… so… God!"

"Shut up. Merlin, please, just shut up."

A breathless laugh. "You can't stop being a prat for even five seconds, can you?"

Then speech became impossible, and Potter started fucking him fast and fierce, grinding him into the wall behind him. Draco felt desperate with need. He was so close, but if he let go of Potter's pumping arse to grab his own cock, he'd fall. Potter moaned--a throaty, frantic sound--and then his fingers were digging so tightly into Draco's arse that he thought they'd break his skin. The sound Potter made as he came sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through Draco's body. When Potter then pulled away, leaving him in a state of wild and painful engorgement, Draco thought he'd smack him across the face and scream with frustration.

But then, ioh/i, that was something else altogether--Potter leaning against him, fisting Draco's cock in his hand. His forehead rested against Draco's shoulder; he was still gasping from his own orgasm, his wild hair tickling Draco's neck. Draco whined and jerked forwards. He came hard, all over Potter's stomach, feeling Potter's still warm come dribbling down his thighs.

As the tremors finally softened and ended, Draco let his head fall back against the wall. His muscles had gone loose. Potter was still leaning his head against Draco's neck and shoulder, one hand resting on Draco's hip, the other flat against the wall. The strain and humiliation of earlier was coated in a blanket of bliss. It would do for the moment.

Draco gently pressed him away, saying, "not bad."

Potter stepped back and then grinned hesitantly. He began to straighten and rearrange his clothes. Draco similarly found his own discarded garments and put them back on, clucking at the creases and dust. He couldn't wait to see what the bruises on his arse were going to look like later.

"If we had done this when we were sixteen the war might have ended sooner."

Draco laughed darkly at Potter's attempt at humour, and then there was a short silence.

"I used to wank over you in school."

"Really?" asked Potter, wrinkling his nose.

Draco smirked and nodded. "Mmm. I'd imagine holding my wand on you and making you kneel at my feet while I wanked and then came all over your face."

Potter raised an eyebrow at him, made as if he were about to say something, but then blushed and turned away. "We can't do this again."

Draco didn't even try to hide his smile. "Of course not."

"I mean it. It's… It's just…" Potter squirmed.

Draco's smile widened. "What with you not being queer and the two of us hating each other, best to nip it in the bud now."

Potter was glaring at him. "Yes. Exactly." He narrowed his eyes. "I mean it, you know."

Draco bit his lower lip, let his eyes close half way and gazed at Potter through his lashes. Potter took on a hunted expression. Draco smirked.

Scowling, Potter checked and brushed off his clothing. "This won't do either of us any good. It's just a… a reaction. We're feeding off each other."

"Mmm."

Potter pursed his lips--to keep himself from smiling, in Draco's opinion. "We'll be in touch. Don't leave the country. We're tracking you, and we'll know."

"Big, serious Auror," purred Draco.

"Stop it."

Draco inclined his head in acquiescence.

"I'll.. I'll see you, Malfoy."

"I'm sure," replied Draco.

Potter let him out of the interrogation room and walked off, glancing back at Draco once, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. Draco took a lift down to the Atrium and flooed home, eager to let his mother know the crisis was over for the time being.

center /center

Harry put an end to his Following Malfoy campaign. He admitted to himself that it had been a mistake and didn't spend overly much time wondering exactly what he'd hoped to gain by doing it. He figured that keeping as great a distance as possible between the two of them was the best path to follow at the moment.

There had been more murders over the last few weeks and work had been full on. The murders were all the same. A witch or wizard found in their home or on the street, stabbed or strangled or bludgeoned. The method of killing was always non-magical. There were never any witnesses.

It was evening, and he lay collapsed on the sofa in his lounge while Ron and Hermione argued about Occularism in the background. The Wizarding Wireless Network was broadcasting something soft, slow and pleasant. Harry let his eyes close, enjoying the rare feeling of relaxation. He tried not to think about how Ginny lying against the opposite arm of the sofa, her legs entwined with his would have made the moment perfect. He tried not to let sorrow and longing creep up through his chest and grasp hold of his mind with their hard, cold fingers.

Mostly, however, he tried not to think about Malfoy, or the way his breath quivered warm against Harry's ear when he was whispering to him or the light in his eyes as he claimed to be irredeemable or the sounds he made just before he came. He tried to push aside thoughts of Malfoy wanking over him or the disturbing erections Harry would sometimes get after they fought when they'd been in school. Trying not to think about Malfoy, however, seemed to irrevocably lead to thinking about Ginny and that would lead to nowhere but finding some excuse to make Ron and Hermione leave followed by spending the evening alone in his flat in a pit of despair.

"Harry," said Hermione, from her chair by the fire, "where were you planning on spending Christmas this year?"

Harry sat up and then shrugged, glad of the interruption to his brooding but finding no pleasure in the idea of Christmas. "The Burrow, I guess."

"Where else would he spend it?" asked Ron, an edge to his voice.

"No, don't be silly, Ron. I didn't mean... I just thought it might be nice for the three of us to go somewhere else. Maybe we can see what Luna, Neville and Hannah are doing."

"Do you think that's a good idea?" asked Harry.

"Mum won't have it," said Ron, shaking his head. "Not this year. She'll want us all together."

"Yes. I guess she will. I was thinking, though, that…"

Harry let his head fall forward into his hands.

There was a sharp icrack/i and suddenly Malfoy, hair wildly askew, his robes soaked with blood, stood panting in front of them, his eyes were wide and panicked.

Hermione shrieked and Ron leapt to his feet, pulling his wand and shouting, "Freeze or I'll stun you!"

"I didn't know… I'd heard you lived…" Mafloy stammered, his shoulders heaving.

Harry looked Malfoy up and down and asked, "What happened?"

"Home," replied Malfoy, his face creasing with misery.

Harry grabbed his arm and without saying goodbye to Ron or Hermione Apparated with Malfoy directly into the entry hall of the Malfoy's London flat. Upon arrival, Malfoy jerked his arm free from Harry and ran up the staircase. Harry followed, his heart beating fast. Malfoy darted into a room off the hallway, and Harry instantly knew what he was about to see.

It was a woman's dressing room. A large, dust-pink dressing table topped by an ornate, gilt-framed mirror dominated the far wall. A broken overturned chair, a chaise longue with a gash down the centre of its cushion, and various objects strewn across the floor gave testament to a recent fight. On the left hand wall a painting depicted a longhaired maiden who was currently huddled to the side as far away from the bloody handprint smeared across the canvas as she could get.

Beneath the painting, Narcissa Malfoy lay crumpled on her back, pale blue robes twisted and splattered with shiny crimson. Her eyes were closed, her face white. Harry had never realised how thin she was. Unconscious, she looked like a felled bird--long, slender and fragile.

The crack of Apparition echoed faintly in the distance, then the sound of thudding footsteps grew louder until Ron burst into the room and stumbled to a stop, barely managing not to crash into Harry. His face was red; he was panting.

"What the hell, Harry?" Then he spotted Narcissa and went pale. "Fuck." His hand went to his head, and he turned to Harry. "No. That was not on. You don't just run off into Merlin knows what kind of situation without any back up. It could have been a trap."

"Ron," Harry kept his voice low, "go floo St Mungos. Have them send an emergency team." He turned to Malfoy, who was on his knees at his mother's side. "Where's the nearest fireplace?"

Malfoy looked up, dazed, and said, "Across the hall. The Billiards Room."

"The 'Billiards Room'," Ron muttered quietly to himself.

"Ron!" Harry felt his temper spilling over.

Ron huffed and ran from the room.

Malfoy gazed fixedly at his mother, shoulders hunched and trembling whilst Harry crouched opposite him. Harry felt Narcissa Malfoy's throat for a pulse, then looked up at Malfoy and said, "She's still alive."

Malfoy swallowed with seeming difficulty, then nodded.

Harry ran his eyes over Narcissa, carefully taking in all the details of the scene so he could go over them again later in the Pensieve. She'd been stabbed, apparently, with something pointy but dull. She'd put up a fight first.

"What happened?" Harry asked, keeping his voice calm and quiet.

"I don't know. I healed the wounds as best I could. There's so much blood."

Harry lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "Did you do this, Malfoy?"

Malfoy made a choking sound, his shoulders sagging further. "I don't know. I don't… I just… We were talking. We argued. Then… she was just—" Draco gestured helplessly.

"What were you arguing about?"

"The mirror. The blasted mirror. She didn't want me to have it, said it was probably cursed. She tried to take it from me."

Ron dashed back into the room accompanied by a team of three healers. They examined Narcissa, performed some basic healing spells, and then carefully levitated her onto a stretcher. Ron accompanied two of them to St Mungos, and Harry held one behind and ushered him into the corridor. He questioned him briefly and then allowed the man to follow the rest of his team.

Returning to Narcissa's dressing room, Harry found Malfoy standing, hunched over and scrubbing at his face with his hands.

"I'm going to have to take your wand. I… I'm sorry. I have to."

Malfoy stiffened, and it was almost a relief to see the resentment that flashed across his face. Harry watched as he closed his eyes and gave a heavy sigh before pulling out his wand and handing it to Harry.

"Thank you."

"What choice did I have?"

"You were telling me about the mirror."

Malfoy began pacing fretfully, flicking his eyes around the room. "It belonged to my Aunt Bellatrix." He glanced sidelong at Harry as he said the name. Harry mindfully kept his expression blank. "I found it among her things at the Manor after she died."

The sound of the woman's name felt like cold mercury trickling between Harry's ribs. His mind was spinning. He had a sense of something, just beyond the horizon of his knowledge, some small piece of information that would pull the rest of the mystery together. He also had a stomach full of cold dread. "Malfoy," he asked quietly, "what did you want with Bellatrix's mirror?"

Malfoy leaned forward, pressing his forehead and palms against the wall. "I need to get to St Mungos."

"In a moment. She's going to be fine, but she'll need to rest and you won't be able to see her till the morning regardless. Tell me about the mirror. Where is it?"

"I don't know. It was in my hand and then… it wasn't."

"Like your wand on the night of the murders."

Malfoy's head snapped to look at Harry, a new light of fear in his eyes.

"What was special about the mirror? Did it talk to you at all?"

Malfoy nodded, sagging against the wall. "I need to get to St Mungos," he whispered.

It was enough for the moment. They used the floo, and, feeling cold and blank, Harry led Malfoy to the corridor outside his mother's room. They sat on chairs, waiting for the healers.

Malfoy sat silently, staring ahead, eyes blank and glassy. His back was stiff and straight; his fingers clenched his knees.

Harry watched him, trying to think of something to say. "She's going to be all right. They said it was a close run thing, but they got to her in time."

Malfoy didn't react. Harry watched his face. Slowly, Malfoy's lips parted. He exhaled sharply through his nostrils and made a soft moaning sound in the back of his throat.

"Malfoy?"

He pushed himself shakily to his feet and took one stumbling step before swaying and crashing shoulder first to the wall. Harry jumped to his feet and went towards him.

"I'm going to—" Malfoy bent forwards and retched, his face white and damp looking. "I can't—I can't— Merlin." He slumped to his knees and held his face in his hands.

"Come and sit down." It was a command. Malfoy went liquid and slid to the floor. Harry sat down next to him.

Gulping and then taking a deep breath, Malfoy began to talk. "I always got on quite well with Aunt Bellatrix. All things considered. You just had to know how to handle her."

Harry kept his face impassive. His abdomen was twisting and his mind was working furiously, racing towards a conclusion he now realised he'd been doing everything he could to avoid reaching.

"I think she was different when she was young. Before Azkaban. Still mad," he gave a thin, shuddering laugh, "but not quite as… volatile. I was just a toddler when she went away. She barely knew me then."

Harry continued listening. He felt an urge to place a comforting hand on Malfoy's shoulder but resisted it.

Malfoy turned his face away from Harry. "It's been happening for a while now. Months. I'd forget things, suddenly find myself in Diagon Alley with no memory of travelling there. Things kept going missing—my wand, money… time. I… I put it down to stress, grief over my father…"

"I…" Harry swallowed. "I think I might know what's going on. I've seen it happen before. You're—"

Harry felt himself jerked suddenly forwards as Malfoy turned towards him, grabbed his robes, and pulled. "Tell me it isn't true. Tell me!"

His eyes were red-rimmed and frantic. They were sitting so close together that Harry could smell his sharp sweat. He knew what Malfoy was asking. He knew, but found himself only able to stutter, "W-- What do you mean?"

"This!" Malfoy released Harry and gestured wildly towards the door of Narcissa's room. "That I didn't do this. All of it. To her." He took a deep, quivering breath. "That I ididn't kill him/i." Even as his eyes bore into Harry's, they didn't seem to see him, but instead glittered blankly with internal horror.

"The mirror…" said Harry, feeling his heart pounding hard in his chest.

Malfoy flinched.

"I… I do think I know what's going on. It's familiar." Harry would have chosen almost anything over having to tell Malfoy what he was now certain had been happening. He could only imagine what it would be like to receive such news. There was no choice, however. He pressed on. "When he was sixteen years old, Tom Riddle made a Horcrux--"

"You think I'm possessed by... the Dark Lord?" Malfoy looked cold and fragile, like he was carved from ashes.

Harry shook his head. "We destroyed all of Voldemort's Horcruxes. He's gone for good. But…" Harry shifted his body so he was facing Malfoy and then licked his lips. "But, I reckon it's possible that… Bellatrix Lestrange… He taught her all sorts of Dark Magic. I think maybe—"

Malfoy instantly curled into himself, head between his drawn up knees, making a sound between a gasp and a cry.

"Malfoy," said Harry, his hand hovering over Malfoy's shoulder and then finally touching gently down, "It wasn't iyou/i. Do you understand that? It was her. Bellatrix. She was controlling you the whole time. It happened to Ginny. She told me what it was like. You don't remember doing any of it, do you?"

Malfoy shifted his face and turned to look at Harry again, his knee digging into his cheek. "So, you agree. I did all of it."

"No! Your body did—"

"I killed my own father."

Harry shook his head violently. "Wait—"

Trembling, Malfoy sat up. "I killed your iGinny/i… and all the others."

Harry dug his hands into his hair. He suddenly seemed to lack the breath to speak. "Stop it," he pushed out.

Malfoy moaned and then struggled to his feet. He took a stumbling step and began to run.

Harry jumped up after him, his wand already out. "Stop! You can't Apparate, I've got your wand. Don't do this. It will only make things worse."

Malfoy turned to face Harry, his face twisted, his eyes crazed. His voice sounded as if it were being forced from his throat. "How could it possibly get worse? Let the Dementors kiss me; it will be a relief!"

Harry felt sick and helpless. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say that would wash the truth from Malfoy's mind, from his own mind. Anything beyond the next few seconds seemed blank and impossible.

With a shrill scream, Malfoy began scratching at his own face. Harry flinched, a harsh tremor passing through his body, nausea climbing up his throat. Then, wanting only to stop Malfoy from tearing further at his skin, he cried, "iStupefy!/i, and watched as Malfoy slumped unconscious to the floor.

center /center

When consciousness returned, there were a few blissful seconds before reality hit. Sunlight filtered faintly in through the curtains; he was lying on his bed in his bedroom. It was a morning like any other morning. First he felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, and then the reason why flooded his consciousness. He rolled onto his side, knees drawn to his stomach, and pushed his knuckles into his mouth, biting down hard until the urge to scream finally passed. One, two, three long inhalations through his nostrils--during which he concentrated hard on shuttering back the surge of emotion, binding it back and locking it in place--and an icy calm crept through his mind and body.

There was a tower somewhere on a moor. That much Draco knew. The image had haunted his mind for months, and now he knew why. The tower was the key. If he could reach it, he could fix things, put them right whatever the cost. He had to find the tower.

Well, first he had to get rid of Potter, and then he'd find the tower.

Even now, Potter was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, staring at Draco with an expression both wary and pitying, dark circles under his eyes. He must have been watching him while he slept. Draco shuddered and turned away, turning his back to him. He could stupefy him, leave him tied up and then flee. No. Potter still had his wand. Draco cringed with fury and helplessness and then sat up. He was still wearing his bloodstained robes from the night before.

"Leave me be, Potter. You're the last person I want to deal with right now."

"You know I can't."

"So, what? You're going to follow me around until I go mad or try to kill someone? Mostly likely you?"

Potter just blinked up at him, looking mulish. "Maybe I am."

Draco slipped off the bed to his feet and marched around it to confront Potter, who got up and crossed his arms. "Why aren't I in Azkaban? What are you playing at?"

Potter looked away and said nothing. Then he turned back to Draco, putting on his Auror face. "We need to find the mirror."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I never want to look at that bloody thing again as long as I live."

"It needs to be destroyed. You won't be safe until we destroy it."

"Safe?" Draco sneered and then spun, heading towards the doorway. "Fine." He left his bedroom and headed towards his mother's dressing room; Potter followed at his heels like an infuriating puppy.

Once in the room, Draco had to lean his hand against the wall and close his eyes as he was hit with the memory of his mother's broken body. He could feel Potter there watching him shake, the fucking voyeuristic, interfering, hero-complexed bastard. It made him want to cringe away and hide his face. It made him want to curse Potter into bits. Instead, he forced himself to be still and focused.

"It must be in here somewhere. You can cast Accio to find it."

"I doubt that will work." Potter began searching the room. It didn't take him long to find the mirror on the floor under the dresser. He picked it up. Its handle was caked in dried blood. Draco shuddered.

"Seems like if you were doing your job properly, you'd have collected it before we left last night," he said.

Potter turned on him. "Is that what you want? You want me to arrest you? Throw you in prison?"

"It's where I'm going to end up, so why postpone the inevitable?"

"It won't bring them back. It won't bring your father back."

Draco focused on Potter. He was standing with his legs slightly apart, the mirror in one hand, the other hand curled into a fist. "Why are you doing this?"

"I don't know," he almost shouted. "Because I have to. Why did you come to me last night?"

"There was no one else. No one left."

"I'm glad," Potter said, voice quiet now. "I'm glad you came to me."

Shaking his head and gesturing towards the mirror, Draco said, "Well, you've got the mirror. What now?"

"Now we make sure."

Potter examined the mirror. He turned it round in his fingers and then stared intently into the glass. Then, with a sudden sharp movement, he threw it violently to the floor. Draco jumped. Potter stamped hard on the mirror with his shoe. He pointed his wand at it then and said, "iReducto./i" The spell hit the mirror and bounced off its glass, leaving it completely undamaged—not a smudge or a crack marred its surface.

Potter nodded his head and seemed to go slightly paler. He looked up at Draco and said, "I'm sorry." His eyes. His fucking eyes. Draco recoiled.

He couldn't take it—the pity, the horrific sympathy. It eviscerated him, split him open, made the pain overpowering and unbearable. He had to make Potter stop, had to do something before he shattered into a million pieces and became useless.

"Draco…"

It hit him like a stinging hex. He felt himself trembling, felt a wave of emotion working its way up through his gullet like vomit.

Draco threw himself at Potter, knocking him back against the chaise longue. Potter gasped in surprise and struggled, pushing with his hands. Draco grabbed a fistful of Potter's hair and pulled his face towards his own, kissing him desperately. For a few seconds Potter kissed him back, his lips soft and hungry, hands clutching at Draco's bloody robes. Then he shoved Draco violently back and shouted, "No! Stop it. It's not the time."

Falling to his knees, Draco attacked the front of Potter's robes and trousers. "Let me," he gasped. "Just let me."

Potter made a sound of distress, trying to grab Draco's hands to stop him. "Malfoy, please."

"You don't want me anymore now that you know the truth?"

"God." Potter grabbed Draco's wrist and yanked it out of the front of his boxers. Draco glowered at him, panting, and then went at him again with his mouth. With a helpless whine, Potter kissed him back. He refused to stop being horrible, however, and made his kisses slow and gentle where Draco was trying to be hard and frenzied. He stroked the back of his head with his hand. "Okay," he whispered into Draco's mouth. "Okay."

With a small moan, Draco went still. His hands were trembling against Potter's shoulders. The kissing was only making things worse. Potter's lips were soft and tender.

"It's okay, Draco. It's going to be okay."

The sob tore its way through Draco's chest despite all his efforts to keep it clenched inside him. It made his throat burn. He pulled his face away and went limp on top of Potter, pressing him back onto the cushions, digging his teeth into his quivering bottom lip as hot tears dripped down his face. His left hand slid down Potter's waist and into his robes. He wanted to die. He'd never wanted anything so fiercely.

Potter buried his face in Draco's hair.

Draco's fingers curled around cool, hard wood in Potter's pocket.

In a second, he was up on his feet and backing away, his wand extended.

"No!" cried Potter, his eyes widening with shock.

"iStupefy!/i said Draco, and watched Potter's muscles slacken as he lost consciousness. The mirror dropped from his hand and clattered on the floor. Draco snatched it up and stashed it safely in his pocket.

His robes were stiff and itchy, but he didn't bother changing them. It felt appropriate to be covered in his mother's blood, considering what he was about to do.

Now that he could think clearly, the path to the tower was obvious. He concentrated, picturing it, picturing the moor, and then spun and Apparated.

He emerged beneath a milk-white sky. Brown, knee-high grass whipped about his legs and ruffled in the wind in waves. There, in the centre of this secluded and forgotten place, it stood--tall and cylindrical, white stones etched grey with dead moss, thrusting upwards as if it had burst forth from the earth rather than being built upon it. The wind blustered and swirled around the stones, sighing and shrieking. As Draco approached, the air grew icy cold—less the result of weather than the effect of the countless Dementors dipping and soaring frantically in the skyward distance about the turret at the tower's top.

Gooseflesh prickling his skin, Draco kept his head down. He didn't look up at the Dementors despite the morbid pull to do so, but hurried single-mindedly forwards towards the doorless slit that served as an entranceway. Once inside, he cast Lumos to see through the murky darkness and looked around. It was like exploring a dream—the chilly, circular, windowless room hung with ancient, mouldering tapestries, the vast, blackened fireplace in the far wall, the crumbling staircase—everything looked strange yet familiar.

Draco drew near the fireplace and lit it, using magic, as there was no coal or timber. He huddled up against the wall, wishing he'd thought to bring a cloak, and pulled the mirror from his pocket. Despite the fact that he was alone, he whispered, gazing into the glass, "Hello? Are you there?" Then he swallowed the terror threatening to squeeze his throat closed as he waited for the soft, dark, feminine voice to respond.

center /center

Nothing in the dresser. Nothing in the desk. Nothing under the mattress of his bed. Not a thing, not a clue, nothing to tell him where Malfoy had gone or what he was intending to do.

Frantically, Harry continued his search, pulling out drawers, tearing up carpets, each moment that passed making it harder to postpone the inevitable: going to Kingsley and confessing his horrific mistake, getting help.

Stopping Malfoy before he got himself killed.

He pushed everything off the dresser, and then punched the wall, screaming with frustration. Finally, he sunk down onto the chaise longue and sat there, panting, his head hanging forward, hands in his hair.

In that one moment of stillness, Harry realised he could hear someone breathing behind him. He spun, wand out, and there was Malfoy.

He was smiling.

He stood tall and calm, wearing his wrinkled robes caked with dried blood, and cocked his head to the side. There was something wrong with his face. Apart from the smile it was slack and his eyes… they looked dull, blank.

"Come on, Potter. Time to go now," he said in a soft, flat voice, and then held out his hand.

Harry stepped forward and took it.

Heart pounding frantically, he allowed Malfoy to lead him across the hall and into the Billiard Room. He had no idea where he was being led, but knew he had to follow.

Malfoy tossed some floo powder into the fireplace, causing green flames to erupt. Harry paused, staring at Malfoy's blank face and eerie smile. Malfoy's fingers tightened on his hand and he tugged at Harry.

He never imagined he'd have to see Bellatrix Lestrange again. The idea made his stomach turn. He remembered how Mrs Weasley had killed her to protect Ginny, and a strange sense of vertigo left him feeling breathless and dizzy. Malfoy pulled at him again and Harry followed him into the flames.

The room was dark, circular and stank of mould and rot. Harry shivered and rubbed his arms to warm them. He was clutching his wand so tightly his fingers ached. Despite the fact that there were no windows, the sound of the howling wind echoed through the stone walls. Harry felt as if he could feel the noise reverberating inside his head. It was wrong, this place, warped and sickening, yet he continued to follow Malfoy as he began ascending the staircase. "Where are we going? What's at the top of the tower?"

"Never mind. Just keep up. You'll see soon enough."

The staircase seemed to go on forever, winding upwards in a spiral of crumbling stone. Round and round they climbed, Harry watching Malfoy's thin, straight back as he progressed, feeling colder and colder and desperate with not knowing what lay in store for them once they reached the top. His body coursed with adrenaline, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. Their footsteps echoed, loud and endless, making it impossible to think. Harry's legs began to tire. As he paused to rest and catch his breath, he realised that the sound of the wind had risen. It sounded less like wind now, and more like… voices, blended voices, howling and screaming as one.

As the staircase finally ended, the noise became deafening. They'd emerged into a vast, cylindrical room. Harry looked up, saw the hollow of the turret far above them, and then squinted. The air near the ceiling was shimmering and fluttering. It was as if it were filled with Disillusioned birds or flying fish or…

"Souls," said Malfoy, gazing upwards with his empty eyes. "One hundred souls. Whole and perfect."

"My God," whispered Harry, a tremor of horror rippling through his body.

Malfoy stood still. The eerie smile melted from his face and his eyes rolled back in his head. His knees bent forward and his head fell back as he collapsed. Harry ran and knelt by his side, taking his chin in his palm. Malfoy's eyelids fluttered and his hand snapped up to grab Harry's wrist and pull it away from his face. His eyes focused and locked on Harry's.

"No," he groaned. "She brought you here to kill you. Why did you come?" He rolled away from Harry and slowly, shakily pulled himself to his feet. For a moment he swayed, but then one hand went to his forehead, he stumbled and then dropped to his knees. His skin was white, his shoulders heaving as he struggled for breath, staring back at Harry with frightened eyes.

A deep, feminine laugh rang out, echoing through the turret. Harry looked up and scanned the space, but saw nothing but stone walls and the shimmering light of souls soaring above them. The mirror lay on the floor near the wall.

"So, there you are, Harry Potter. Not much to you, is there? I'd expected more, considering what Draco told me you've done."

It was as if the air over the mirror was blurred in the shape of a woman, like looking at someone emerging from a Disillusionment spell. The air shivered in front of Harry, and as Malfoy gave a weak cry and sagged the rest of the way to the floor, Bellatrix's shape took on an outline.

Malfoy was lying on his side, his ribs rising and falling rapidly beneath his robes. Harry crawled to him and took his arm; his skin was cold and clammy. He pulled his wand and pointed it at Bellatrix.

The air shimmered again and the outline became a transparent shape. Malfoy gasped weakly and his head fell to the floor. Harry tightened his grip on his arm. It was growing colder.

"I know what you're doing," Harry said to Bellatrix. She appeared to be no older than he or Malfoy. Her eyes were dark but bright, her hair hung down her back in glistening waves, several long tendrils swirling in the wind created by the flight of souls. Harry licked his lips. "I know what you're doing," he repeated, "and I'm not going to let you."

She laughed again, and Harry recoiled from the sound. "And what are you doing to do to stop me, you pathetic little Half-blood?"

Harry paused, searching her translucent eyes. He had neither Basilisk fangs nor Sorting Hat. He didn't know how to cast Fiendfyre and wouldn't have risked it if he did. He had no idea how he was going to stop her. He just knew that he would. He had to.

Bellatrix swung her arm through the air and Harry saw that she held Malfoy's wand. "That's the second wand of yours I've taken, nephew. You need to learn how to keep your hands on them."

"You made him get rid of his wand," said Harry, rising and stepping between Bellatrix and Malfoy. "It was you."

"Of course. I couldn't have the Aurors casting Priori Incantatem and discovering what I'd made him do, could I?"

"You made him kill all those people. They had families! They had people who loved them!"

"My sweet nephew did everything I asked of him. He was pliant as a child. He found the tower. He killed, collected the souls and brought them here. And then he thought he could fight me. They always do. So very sweet. Like you, Potter. Did I make him kill someone you iloved/i? Poor thing. You must be terribly cross with me." Her smile was all glistening teeth.

Harry felt himself warmed with rage. "You were a cruel, evil woman and you're a cruel, evil girl. You didn't win then, and you won't win now!"

Harry felt a tickle at his ankle and looked down to see Malfoy tugging weakly at the hem of his robes.

"Let her take me."

"Don't be an idiot."

"I'm half dead anyway. Let her take me and then you can kill her, and it will be finished."

Harry bent and touched Malfoy's cheek – as cold and white as marble now – and thought of the way he'd screamed and held onto Harry so tight as they flew from the ravenous jaws of the Fiendfyre as the Room of Requirement burned. He'd clung to Harry; he'd clung to life with such fierce desperation.

"Don't say it again," he said, feeling furious and fiercely desperate himself.

"It's my fault," whispered Malfoy, closing his eyes for a heart-stopping moment, and then opening them again to stare glassily up at the flock of lost souls at the top of the turret. "All because of me."

"Malfoy," said Harry, feeling ice burst in his chest and spread. "No. It's not."

"You… you don't get it, Potter!" Malfoy turned back to Harry and glared up at him, his voice a weak but angry rasp, "I killed him. I'm responsible for my father's death, because I was weak. I nearly killed my mother, too. How am I supposed to live with that? I don't want to. Let her have me, then stun her and feed the last of her soul to the Dementors."

Harry felt faint with annoyance, with fear, with frustration at Malfoy's sheer bloody-minded ignorance. "Are you mad? Do you not remember who you're talking to?"

Malfoy blinked, his eyes foggy, his brow creased.

"I've lost count of the number of people I've loved who died ibecause of me/i. iMy/i father. My mother, too. Then Sirius and, and…" Harry broke off, rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses. "What if I'd just given up? Where would we be then?"

Malfoy snorted. "Arrogant to the end, Potter."

"Well, it's the truth!"

"Not very like your father, are you?" asked Bellatrix, her lips curling as she gazed down at Malfoy. "He never would have given up without a fight. You're frail with my sister's soft heart."

Malfoy summoned some last bit of energy and in a weak voice said, "Shut up about my father. You were never fit to lick his boots. He thought you were a joke, the way you fawned over the Dark Lord and cried like a little girl when he didn't give you enough attention."

Bellatrix swooped down on him, thrusting Harry out of the way, and gripped him by the throat.

"What's that, darling Draco? Shall we talk about your father? He was always jealous of me." She ran a finger tenderly along Malfoy's jaw, making him wince. "I alone had my master's heart, and all Lucius had was—"

"You never had his heart," sneered Harry. "No one had Voldemort's heart. He used you until the very end."

Bellatrix's head snapped to look at Harry, her eyes growing darker, her skin taking on more colour with each word. "That was not the end, you foolish boy."

She released Malfoy's throat with a shove and his head fell limply back to the floor. His eyes were closed. "Malfoy," said Harry, his chest tight. He looked back at Bellatrix. She looked solid and vibrant, if still a bit blurry around the edges. "Malfoy!" Harry cried, falling on him and grabbing his shoulders. Malfoy was limp and completely unresponsive.

Harry lay Malfoy gently down and then got to his feet, his wand clenched in his fist, his shoulders shaking. "Let him go. You had your chance and you blew it. Let him go!"

Bellatrix treated him to more of her cackling laughter. She lost all her beauty when she laughed. Her face twisted and she looked like nothing more than a madwoman, a monster, exactly what she was.

"I think not, Potter. iAccio Harry Potter's wand!/i

Harry's fingers clenched tight, but his wand slipped free anyway, landing in Bellatrix's hand.

She slipped it into her ethereal pocket and turned to the ceiling and began to sing. "iOne hundred souls, one hundred souls, one hundred souls for my lost love/i," Every child learns the rhyme before they're out of nappies. It's treated as a story, a fairy tale to scare little ones. Only I dare to make it real."

"What… what are you saying? You're going to—"

"A feeble boy, barely of age, couldn't put an end to the greatest wizard of all time. It isn't ipossible!/i" Bellatrix shrieked and stamped her foot, her face creased with wrath. Then, almost immediately, she went quiet, her eyes wide and dreamy, smiling beatifically. "He knew. When he helped me make my Horcrux, he knew that I'd come back, that I'd be able to make things right."

"You couldn't bring him back if you had a thousand souls! He destroyed himself, piece by piece. There's nothing left to resurrect, nothing but a mindless, mewling scrap."

"You lie! The Dark Lord will rise again and when he does I'll present him with his so called killer. And we'll rip your lying tongue from your head, Harry Potter! Your tongue and then your heart!"

"I'm not lying! I wish you could see him, see what he did to himself."

"And you will get your wish." With that she turned and lifted her wand to the ceiling.

"iExpugno Animus/i, she cried, and a rope of twisting orange light shot from her wand. As it flew upwards it split, and each branch then split again, and again until hundreds of glowing tentacles had sprouted forth. They curled netlike about the souls, binding and trapping them.

Harry watched, helplessly aghast, as the net of souls began sink. He had to destroy the mirror, had to figure out a way to do it.

Bellatrix dropped to her knees, as the net fell level with the floor. She held her wand in both hands and raised it up above her head, crying, "iAscendo Lord Voldemort Denuo!/i"

The net began to spin, the strands of light blending together into a single glowing orb. Harry stepped back, stumbled and fell, his heart gripped by terror fiercer than any he'd experienced since the end of the war.

"My Lord," she was panting, her arms outstretched, her upturned face alight with exaltation.

The orb tightened, pressing the souls together until they looked like one solid, glowing shape.

iNo./i thought Harry, iGod, please, no/i. It couldn't work. Voldemort couldn't return, not after five years of believing he'd put an end to him once and for all. His body clenched in horror. His bones felt as if they were made of ice.

The net tightened further. The light became so bright Harry had to shield his eyes with his hand. He was being blinded, but he couldn't look away.

Then, suddenly, it all stopped.

The orb stopped spinning, the net relaxed, the light dissipated.

For a moment Bellatrix merely gaped. She looked frozen with shock. Then, her hands tearing at her hair, she screamed.

"I told you!" Harry shouted. "I told you it wouldn't work! He's gone forever and nothing you can do will bring him back!"

With a cry like a banshee Bellatrix leapt on him. Harry struggled, but it was like fighting a cloud. She was cold as a ghost and barely more substantial and the feel of her made his body quake with revulsion.

"Because of you!" she shrieked, clawing at his eyes with her soft, icy fingers. "All because of you!" Her face was inches from Harry's, her mouth open, lips drawn back from her teeth, eyes dark pits of hatred, rage and madness. The cold burned through Harry as they struggled. If he'd had his wand he could have stunned her now while she was distracted. Something clicked then in Harry's mind. "...Stun her," Malfoy had said, "and feed the last of her soul to the Dementors."

Without thinking about it further, Harry thrust his arm down, through the blur of her body. Her half-formed flesh cut at his skin like a thousand icy knives, but he found his wand in the folds of her robes and wrenched it forth with all his strength. Rolling onto his back, his body still half enmeshed with Bellatrix's, Harry pointed his wand at the ceiling and screamed, "iReducto!/i"

The turret exploded in a shower of stones and immediately more Dementors than Harry had ever seen at one time flew in through the hole, down into the tower.

The shrieks of the souls were terrible; they pierced Harry's ears with pain and tore at his mind. The greater mass of the Dementors attacked the glowing net, tearing at it, trying to get at the feast within.

Gasping and sweating, Harry crawled frantically backwards away from the mass of dark, cloaked figures hurtling towards them. iExpecto Patronum Expecto Patronum Expecto Patronum/i--the words automatically flew through his mind to his lips, but he bit them back, scrabbling his hands across the floor until they found the mirror. Despair pierced his chest like a thick, cold spear and pinned him, shivering and trembling, to the floor, and then they were upon him.

The first Dementor reached him and grabbed him by the shoulders with its skeletal fingers. It began to lower its mouth towards his. Knowing he had only a single chance, Harry forced his hand up and thrust the mirror before him and into the sucking mouth inches from his own.

As the mirror disappeared, Harry heard Bellatrix's shocked and desperate scream, and then she was silent.

The first Dementor had swooped away after consuming the Horcrux, but others were bearing down on Harry. It was hopeless, there were too many and he was exhausted.

He let his head fall back. It was the worst end he could imagine, but he was helpless to prevent it.

Then something bright stirred in the corner of his eye. Harry let his face turn to the side and he saw Malfoy, moving, struggling to sit up, his face blank with confusion. A group of Dementors flocked towards him, his eyes widened and he screamed, throwing his arms in front of his face and curling up into a ball.

Harry didn't know from where the strength came, he only knew that he couldn't let the Dementors take Malfoy. He forced himself to his feet and felt bony fingers like icicles grab his face, his head, his neck, his back, his legs, lifting him into the air. Kicking and struggling against them, he dug deep into his soul and pulled out not so much a memory but a group of feelings and images. Ginny's eyes blurred with his mother's, with the sight of Hermione and Ron's faces after Voldemort had finally died, with Hogwarts re-built, the smell of Ginny's hair, and Malfoy kissing him suddenly out of the blue and setting free the tightness and anger he'd held trapped inside him for longer than he could remember.

"iEXPECTO PATRONUM!/i"

The stag burst forth from his wand and swept towards Harry, flying through the Dementors holding him. Harry dropped to the floor as they swooped away, and he saw the stag spin and make toward Malfoy. It scattered the Dementors attacking him, chased them up and away until they disappeared through the hole in the ceiling.

With Bellatrix's second death, the net enclosing the lost souls had evaporated. Like a shimmering school of airborne fish, they also swept upwards and out. Now that the Dementors had fled, they were free. Harry watched through the broken ceiling, spellbound, as they seemed to dissolve into the sky. For the first time, he realised that Ginny's soul must have been among them. If he'd only had the chance he could have…

Once he was able to open his eyes again, the souls had completely vanished into the ether. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes and lay down, breathing heavily on the floor, feeling his consciousness ebb and flow.

"You should have let me die. Then you could have killed her."

Harry turned towards Malfoy, who lay several feet away. Harry forced himself to his knees and crawled towards him. When he reached him, he sat and lifted Malfoy's head from the hard stone floor to rest in his lap.

"She's gone now. And you've suffered enough, Draco."

"Stop calling me "Draco."

"No."

They remained still in the suddenly echoing silence, which was now broken only by the sounds of their own breathing. Harry brushed the tear-damp hair off Draco's face.

"It's a terrible habit, this saving my life thing you do. You've got to stop it. It's excruciatingly embarrassing for me."

Harry ran his fingers through Draco's hair again. Draco's shoulders trembled against him.

"Now what?"

"In a minute I'll Apparate us to St. Mungos."

"And then? Tomorrow? The next day? The rest of my pitiful life?"

"We go on. That's what happens. The world falls apart, but it keeps on turning. We have no choice but to go on."

There was another moment of silence. Harry felt Malfoy's trembling hand curl lightly around his knee.

"Will I go to Azkaban?"

"Not if I can help it."

They remained like that several more long silent moments, with Harry, exhausted, cushioning Malfoy's head against his legs.

"Right," he finally said, realising that if they waited much longer he wouldn't have the strength to Apparate. "It's time we go."

--The End


End file.
